


Molly's Advice

by Arrisha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Relationships, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 21:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3090122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrisha/pseuds/Arrisha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snape used to have a secret; Harry only now begins to realise his own. </p><p>Written for Snarry Swap 2014.</p><p>Prompt 39 from writcraft: Severus has a secret and it's not something he is keen to share. Imagine his displeasure when none other than Harry Potter comes barging into his life unannounced, and discovers the secret Severus has kept carefully hidden for all of this time. As their stories unfold, the two men discover more in common than they had ever thought possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Molly's Advice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Writcraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/gifts).



No one knew exactly how it happened, but when it did, Harry wished for death. 

  
The heaviness of such desire was tangible over the so many things that had happened to him and yet had failed to cause him despair. He couldn’t understand it, but death had to be the only solution. At that moment, as he fumbled around for his glasses, his heart racing as though he had been running for hours, his mouth mumbling frantically words of denial, he was absolutely certain that he wouldn’t bear to continue living with that. 

If he was sober, calm, and clear minded, he would have stopped right there and he would have told himself that this was not the end of the world. 

If he was calm instead of terrified, instead of foolish, instead of in the middle of his first and last hangover, he would have recalled the losses and the grief and the constant guilt that shadowed the lives of the leftovers after the war, and he would have understood. He would have calmed himself down and he would have recalled Molly’s terrible little speech the day after his wedding with her beautiful daughter. 

The recovering they awaited would never come, she’d simply told him, and Harry was supposed to feel angry about it, but he hadn’t. She was grateful that Harry had a mind to mention Fred at the wedding, to remind people that he was a fighter – a clever, young man that should never be forgotten. She was grateful, but she hadn’t honestly appreciated it. 

“Wasn’t it enough that you mentioned him at the memorial?” she had told him, and Harry was confused at her disapproval. People should not talk about what they couldn’t fix, she explained, because it was blasphemy, because it was misuse of remorse, because it wasn’t going to do anything but remind, and instead of remembering, they should all move on. Harry didn’t agree to any of this, but he had nodded all the same. 

“Mistakes are going to happen again whether the horror of the war is over or not. We’re broken,” she had told him then, her hand over his, a sad smile darkening her features, and something inside Harry had broken at how the happiest mum on earth had ended up like this. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that everyone he knew was barely recognizable anymore. He supposed that Molly was wrong. Had to be wrong. 

At that moment, clutching at his neck, a torturous headache spreading over his skull, the alcohol still in his veins, he supposed that not remembering wasn’t meant to be that literal - so he tried to remember anyway.

He remembered. 

He remembered the party the Ministry had hosted to celebrate the anniversary of the first miserable year of freedom after Voldemort’s death, and the tight hugs Ginny had given him to give him some courage before they left home. He remembered singing out loud to annoy her as he waited at the door for her to go and change her shoes, because she had realised at the last moment that they were too small and too uncomfortable. He remembered kissing her when she was finally ready and giving her a soft slap on the arse for being late. 

Harry was in love with Ginny. The feelings toward her were always there, but were too insignificant for him to notice. Over the last year, he had fallen. Hard. When she was out without him, he had a constant swirling at the pit of his stomach, and agonizing thoughts of betrayal were marching through his mind. He could barely stand a day without her, so, after promising himself to find a job and manage to rent a flat, he moved into the Burrow, for he was always welcome there, and Molly and Arthur were a little bit happier to see him around. They liked how he couldn’t hide his love for her; they liked how Ginny wasn’t sullen when she was with him. Happiness wasn’t the standard anymore. Happiness was precious, for all of them. 

He remembered landing at the huge hall, his hand on Ginny’s waist just as the reporters stormed towards them to take a photo. He remembered the speech he addressed to the bored audience right after; the restrained clapping and the nods they granted him sympathetically, like a pitiful pat on the back. It was nothing he hadn’t said before. A part of him knew that as much as wizards admired him for killing Voldemort, they hated him for not having done it earlier. These were people living with pain because of him. People that during the war had lost children, parents, friends. 

He remembered the party that followed right after, the gathering of the “heroes” at last together, all of them equally unwilling to be there, the noise of the music he could barely endure, and the alcohol. 

He remembered the alcohol more clearly than anything else. Plenty of it. Wizard alcohol mixed with muggle drinks. The desire to try every taste he could get. The determination to order everything they had. Then there was the press, and the first time he tried champagne, and then vodka, and then tequila, and then gin. The “Fuck. You!” he screamed at Skeeter’s face so hard his throat burned, but still not loud enough to be heard over the beat, couldn’t be more vivid. And the cocktails. And the grief that everybody pretended to be happiness. All of them. For all of them. 

He remembered Snape, expressionless during his speech, standing at the far end of the hall, avoiding shaking hands with him after it or even approach him, and threatening the reporters to stay away from him, his hand twitching around nothing. He didn’t have a wand anymore, and it was disgraceful, and surely difficult too, but the Minister had promised Snape that he’d get it back after his trial. They’d clear his name. That was for sure. All he had to do was wait. And he’d wait for a long time, Harry had suspected, for there were more than three hundred trials awaiting to begin, all of them concerning Death Eaters, and all of them as ambiguous cases as Snape’s was. It was a farce. And it was going to take years. 

Snape was attending the party out of forced obligation, just to be seen there, just to have a small talk with the Minister himself; to make clear that in case they hadn’t noticed, he wasn’t a Death Eater after all, and he did work against Voldemort, and here he was, along with the survivors, along with his allies, along with people he most likely hated but insisted on wanting alive anyway. A statement he wouldn’t need to make if he wasn’t desperate to get Hogwarts back. To clear his name and become the Headmaster again. Something about old promises to Dumbledore, it was. Harry didn’t want to know. 

His memories were liquid from then on. He remembered dragging Snape around, because, for some reason it seemed funny to do so; making him drink, threatening him he’d make a fuss out of it if he didn’t; mentioning how good it would be for him to be seen on the press with famous Potter. Challenging him to throw back more than him, making him laugh for the first time in ages, stopping his protests by pretending to not hear him because of the music, pushing more filled glasses before him and shouting “Drink!” into his ear. 

He remembered Hermione too, forcing Harry to the men’s room and hissing at him that he was unacceptably pissed. That he was making a fool of himself. That he’d regret it tomorrow. That he was dancing with Snape, for fuck’s sake, whose trial was still due, and who was even more pissed than Harry and ridiculously consenting with it too. That Ginny had left the party half an hour ago because she was tired and Harry hadn’t even noticed. 

He had pushed Hermione away, because he was having fun, because everything was mesmerizingly silly and unimportant, and it didn’t matter in the slightest if he was drunk or not.

Everyone was drunk. Hermione was drunk too, for fuck’s sake, but had no one to keep her from it, so there was no scolding for her. Ron was filling her glass as easily as Harry was filling his own, but she wouldn’t drink. Apparently, Hermione had figured the right moment to stop. 

Harry hadn’t. So he danced in front of everyone, along with everyone, and he couldn’t help but think that it was hilarious that Snape was dancing, or, at least was trying to, and it was so hilarious it was a wonder why no one else laughed at it. So funny it was, that he needed to take a look at it privately, so he seized Snape’s hand when no one was looking and dragged him outside the back door to have a moment with him. 

He had his moment. And he only realized that he was too far gone, when he found himself pressing Snape hard against the brick wall, Snape’s eyes shut while he was making weird sounds as though trying to throw up, or not to. Harry unbuttoned his trousers with freezing hands and dropped on his knees before him. He remembered the excitement, the fun, the mischievousness of the situation as he thought to himself that this was the kind of dirty adventure he didn’t recall ever wanting himself into. 

And yet he enjoyed it, knowing full well that he was doing something forbidden, something entirely absurd and wrong, not wondering in the slightest what could that mean for him, or if Snape was going to think of him as a ponce. 

What he didn’t remember, was that the press loved to follow him around. What he should have remembered, but didn’t, was Hermione’s warning that his publicity was only at its start yet. That it’d grow bigger. 

And what he couldn’t explain, was how he found himself at what seemed to be the filthiest bed of London, at some smelly motel in the middle of nowhere, with Snape sleeping next to him naked and messed up. 

Harry wished for death. 

He pulled himself up quickly, careful to not touch anything, having the suspicion that nothing could be more disgusting than his own self at the moment, and after swaying to his feet for a minute and damning alcohol to hell, he clothed himself and left. 

*

It was all over the press:

Harry Potter Allegedly Caught In Gay Scandal: Ministry Celebration Gone Wrong. The True Connection between Potter and the Death Eater Organization. 

It seemed that his life and future were ghosts of a dead civilization whose the last bits had just collapsed. 

And now Ginny was banging at their locked bedroom door, screaming at him and crying like the betrayed from an arsehole woman that she was. Harry didn’t deny what had happened, because he couldn’t, and he didn’t explain either, because there was not an explanation or an excuse to save him from his deeds. 

He did beg, however, and he tried to hug her and to work out a solution and a way to forget. Nothing was ever going to be forgotten, though, and this is something he should know. He listened through all her accusations, hoping for her anger to subside after a week or so. 

There was sorrow, sometimes, like, “You don’t like men, do you? Have you been thinking of men when you’re with me? How could you not like men, you did that! You… you did that, you could..!” and there was hate too, like, “If you expect me to have up my cunt a cock that has gone near another man’s arse you’re delusional, Potter! You disgust me! You made a fool out of me, you humiliated me to every wizard alive, god damn you! Go away!”

So he packed his things and left the Burrow before they could ask him to. Having nowhere to go, he returned to the filthy motel that destroyed his life only a few weeks ago and asked for a room. They gave him the same key as the first time, and for the rest of the night Harry struggled to ignore the suspicion that they did, indeed, remember him. 

The days that came, he stared at the ceiling, kicked at the wall, allowed himself to cry, and wrote a letter to Ginny to beg for her forgiveness. He explained to her how he had never drunk alcohol before, how he felt utterly disgusted with himself, and how he was absolutely, completely and wholeheartedly heterosexual. 

He never got a response, and by the end of the month, he decided to look for a place of his own. 

*

It wasn’t the Ministry’s fault, they told him. He shouldn’t see this as expulsion, but as an opportunity to look out for something new. Scandals were always highly distracting things when it came to Auror Attendance, and his aberrant behavior wasn’t exactly tolerable. This was law enforcement, after all, and people who graduated from it were expected to be clean of all charges. 

“And your history is burdened with a lot of troubles to foresee this,” he was casually informed. How sucking cock was burdening him more than killing the most dangerous wizard of his time, he didn’t know, but he slammed the door at the Minister’s face on his way out.

*

Skeeter was sued, of course, and it wasn’t by Harry. 

He learned the news from Hermione, who pitied him a little too much and had a way of forcing him to watch his degradation in her eyes every time he looked at her. Snape had apparently grown tired of his face being on the front papers of Witch Weekly, and had decided to take some measures. 

Harry himself had grown sick of watching the same single photo of them Skeeter had managed to take on every newspaper and magazine across the country, but hadn’t done anything to stop it. It seemed that trying to talk about it would somehow make this real, and after sobriety had struck him, he wasn’t sure he could deal with the events of that night without going mad. He let it go on, unable to contact every single newspaper agent and beg for his sorry reputation back. 

He only allowed himself to see the photo once, before burning the issue and hopelessly kicking at the ashes. It was terrible. Snape’s head was resting back against the wall, mouth dropped open, eyes closed, while a huge red star censored the spot where Harry’s head was supposed to be. And Snape’s cock. 

With a letter to the Minister himself, Snape had threatened to use his old tricks against Skeeter if the photo wasn’t banished immediately and if Skeeter wasn’t sacked. Although Skeeter’s job had escaped the risk, the news eased down soon after it, Snape was left alone, and in the press was now merely Harry’s home, Harry’s face, and Harry’s boring daily schedule. 

*

“He left England,” Hermione told him, and Harry shrugged his shoulders indifferently at the news. Having been denied the right to work near children ever again, and accused as an extremely dubious case of a war criminal, he supposed there wasn’t much left for Snape to do here. 

His trial took three months to work out, and Harry was requested as a witness more than once during that time. He never attended, but made sure to pass over all the evidence Snape needed without directly contacting him or his lawyer. 

It was a right decision, surprisingly. 

*

Looking for a job wasn’t hard. It was ridiculous. 

The small shops in Diagon Alley were more than happy to offer him a place. Harry felt too good for that. The other option was to accept payment for watching Teddy over the weekends, and this was out of question. Seeing Teddy was a ritual, not a chance for money. The kid was brilliant. Clever like his mother, risky like his dad. And he loved Harry. 

Harry loved him too; he enjoyed the way he laughed and cried and showed Harry around the house even though Harry had been there countless times before. He enjoyed the feeling of looking after something so small and fragile – so precious and so close to what Harry was. An orphan. 

It wasn’t nearly like that, for Teddy never came across sadness or loneliness, and he would never meet rejection like Harry had. 

He would never meet his parents too, and as Harry positioned Teddy upon his shoulders for a walk along the coast, he wished that everything was different. 

Molly was right. 

*

“Money,” she repeated. 

Harry looked at her sallow face and nodded. “Just a small loan. Look, I know you don’t want to, I’m going to give you back every last cent though. Things are a bit harsh at the moment.”

The clock’s ticking could just as well be banging. Petunia stood, and Harry did too. “You are not welcome here. I trust you know that.”

“I know,” he said, but he couldn’t think of a place he was welcome at, and at least she had taken him in once. 

“Three hundred. And I want them back by the end of the month.”

When the end of the month came, and no career opportunities had appeared for him, Harry decided to accept one of the jobs at Diagon Alley and move on.

*

Harry had figured that one could find out who their true friends were when one was involved in a scandal. Ron and Hermione never left him, and he knew it wasn’t out of approval or comprehension. They needed each other, the three of them, and if one was missing no one could be well. 

Ron had a fight with him, when it all started, with punches and swearing and pure, unrestrained hate. It ended as quickly as it began, though, and Harry reassured himself that he only saw him seldom anymore because he was dating Hermione and they needed time for themselves. 

The reporters were almost angry with him; if they could openly accuse him of being too boring for their headlines, they would have. They waited for him to close the shop, sometimes, and followed him around or even asked him questions. It was pathetic, and more pathetic was the fact that he sometimes felt like they kept him company. 

When they stopped doing even that, disappointed that there was nothing interesting for them to tell anymore, there was a curious stillness in his life of which Harry didn’t know what to make. 

He happened upon Ginny a few months later, while taking a walk in muggle London, and, surprisingly, she was willing to have a coffee with him. 

*

No one was surprised that he and Ginny worked it out at last. Arthur was willing to have him back but, instead, Ginny moved out to stay with Harry. They clicked together nicely, as they always had, and even though the flame of love wasn’t as burning as it once had been, Harry still couldn’t believe his luck. 

She was the love of his life, and he didn’t care if he was too young for this. He didn’t regret their marriage. He didn’t regret that he hadn’t signed the divorce papers when they landed on his kitchen table with a fat purple ministry owl. Now that Ginny was back, it seemed that all the time that she hadn’t been a sequence in a bad dream. It felt like he had just woken up from a nightmare and he was able to breathe again. 

He held her close as she slept, every single night, and he knew that he’d never again risk losing her.

*

It took him three years to do it again. 

This time, he wasn’t nearly as drunk, and the bloke was a muggle stranger who didn’t bother to ask his name or age. He fucked Harry raw anyway, against the slimy wall of a nightclub's toilet, and Harry gritted his teeth against the pain and his self–disgust. 

This shouldn’t be happening, he thought to himself, and he tried to block out the dizzying sensation of thrusting and sweating and grunting. He had promised Ginny to never bring this up again; had told her that it was a terrible mistake, one of those that people did and people forgot so they could continue their lives without falling apart. 

He had blamed the war and the trauma and the confusing sadness that never seemed to go away after so many deaths and losses. She hadn’t bought a bit of it, and now she was pregnant too, a huge stretched belly between him and her to remind him that he had nowhere to go and that he should be happy and whole and satisfied with all that he had. 

He was, and it was too good, too rough, too violent, and there he was coming all over his fist, forehead against the wall, hands eager to pull his trousers up, mouth open around shock and pleasure, just like Snape’s had once been. 

*

His son was the best thing that could have happened to him. Harry held him against his chest and smiled, afraid to squeeze him too tightly, afraid to let go. The nurse took him from Harry and covered him with a small yellow blanket, and Harry turned to look at Ginny. Exhaustion and relief washed over her face, and she brushed his fingers with hers. 

They were family now, a distant voice told him, and he was shocked at the realisation that they needed a third person around to be just that. 

*

The day the Potter family was seen publicly again, in Diagon Alley, shopping, laughing, with little James clutching his mother’s hand and barely managing to walk straight, the Minister owled Harry and offered him a scholarship. He apologized, explaining how terribly sorry he was for denying their savior, Harry Potter, the education he deserved. 

And Harry would have declined, too proud to go back to where they had thrown him out of, and too wounded by publicity to be part of it again. Ginny would never forgive him for it, though, so he accepted. 

*

“Fuck me,” Harry groaned, “Yes, harder, yes,” because these were the words Ginny used to say to him, and he had to try it, so he did. It worked like magic, for the man behind him did fuck him harder, and Harry knew he would have trouble sitting for days, and the condom’s lube wasn’t nearly enough for this, and the toilet stall was stinking and was miserably dark and filthy. 

“Fuck me,” he said again, surprised that there was even lower for him to fall, terrified that he’d have to hug his son in a couple of hours and tell him a bed-time story, sick of the hands that spread his arse cheeks to thrust deeper and sick of himself and Ginny and James too. 

*

Ginny was pregnant again, and Harry was thrilled. 

Two kids, a wife, a decent job. He couldn’t have asked for more. 

And hopefully, the Prophet would eventually shut it. 

*

“I want it blue,” James said, and Harry waved his hand. The shirt Harry had bought him for his birthday turned to the desired color and James shrieked. “Nooo! It’s ugly! Not that blue, dad! Change it back, change it back!”

“Back to green?” Harry asked casually. 

“Back to red, you dummy!” 

Harry smirked. He waved his wand and the shirt turned pink. James laughed. “That’s for girls! Come on, fix it.”

Harry did, trying to hide his smile. 

“That’s not red-red. It’s too dark. Make it like mum’s hair.”

Harry waved his wand again and sighed. “How about going out for lunch and then deciding?”

“Nooo! It’s very important, don’t you see? We need to fix this now or else it’s going to stay ugly!” James slumped back onto the bed and released his breath, as though pushing away the heaviness of having to make such a life changing decision. “Blue?” he asked apologetically. 

Harry narrowed his eyes, looming over his son with a mocking serious expression. “Blue it shall be, then,” he drawled before casting the spell. It took a moment for James to register what had happened and then he bolted up and tried to crawl over Harry’s head. 

“I’m going to kill you! You’re evil! Evil! Mum! Muuum! Help! Muuum!” 

Harry tickled his armpits and James, now completely blue from head to toe, slipped to the floor and clasped his blue hands together to beg. “Fix this please, please pleasepleaseplease!”

The spell was broken and Harry turned to see Ginny staring from the door. He was sure he heard her mumbling “Potters,” before she left, and James pointed his tongue at him. 

At that moment, Harry would have sworn that the war never happened. He was a happy man. He was whole. 

Molly was wrong. 

*

“It’s an honor to have you with us, Mr. Potter.” 

“The honor is mine, actually,” Harry said, his palms sweating. Being part of the Auror Unit was his dream, but now it had come true, he didn’t know where to begin. His office was small, and had two desks of which he had to choose only one. He had hoped for their Head to give the second one to Ron, but, unfortunately, he was assigned elsewhere. 

It was a new start, if anything, and he sat on his chair with satisfaction. There was a lot that needed to be done, along with winning the trust of his superiors and being here for most of the day, but he’d do it. He wasn’t going to fail this time. 

Ginny was ready to look after the kids without him, and although he’d miss the afternoons with them, he could still spend the weekends with his family. 

Blowing the dust off the surface of his desk, he began unpacking. 

*

It was unnerving when, an openly gay guy, a supposed activist of sorts, whom Harry didn’t even know, gave an interview to the Quibbler to proclaim how angry he was with him. People ought to be proud, he said, and shouldn’t hide themselves behind lies and hypocrisies. 

It was disappointing to see public figures pretending to be straight while everyone knew they weren’t, let alone building a life upon those lies, leading on a family or having kids for the sake of their prestige. 

It was the same scandal all over again, and Ron decided to not address it, while Hermione had a talk with Ginny and advised her to be patient. 

“It was only once, dammit!” Harry yelled at Ginny that night, and he hated himself for lying, and he loved her with all his heart, and he knew he’d die if he lost his beautiful, wonderful kids. 

He wrote to Snape. Ginny had fallen asleep, after she threatened to divorce him and after she cried at how stupid she was to be insecure and still wonder if Harry was using her. He wrote a howler, outraged and blinded from his hate, scratching the scroll with his quill as he muttered again and again, I hate you, I hate you, bastard, your fault, hate you, die, hate you, bastard, bastard, die. 

*

Get over it, was the brief response that came from France, and Harry didn’t have the courage to scream. He tried not to memorize the address on the letter before he burned it. 

*

James was a wonderful boy, and Harry felt a distant sadness at not being able to compare him with the senior James Potter. He didn’t wish his parents were alive, though, for this was a wish as old as time, and Harry felt older than it. 

He tickled James mercilessly, a game James always loved. The boy thrust and screamed on his bed. Ginny rolled her eyes from the far end of the room; Harry laughed evilly just as James snatched his glasses and bolted out of the room. Harry followed, begging for mercy, pretending to see poorer than he did, extending his hands and crashing against the walls on purpose. James laughed at that, loudly and hysterically, and eventually showed mercy on his dad and gave him his glasses back. 

It was a good life, Harry decided as he lay next to James and made silly pictures on the ceiling with his wand. Ginny’s belly was enormous, even bigger than the first time, and she stroked it absently with a hand as she looked at her son and husband slowly drifting to sleep. 

A good life, he repeated inside his head, wholeheartedly convinced that he meant it.

*

“You must be joking,” muttered Ron, and Harry wasn’t, so he waited for a few moments and then smiled widely. As horrifying as it was for Ron that Harry and Ginny were, in fact, having sex, the mention of a new nephew was enough to make up for it. 

Ginny’s water had broken in the middle of the night, and they hadn’t got time to go to St. Mungo’s. It was a painful procedure, and Harry didn’t know how to react to her cries and swearing and mumbling about dying. He contacted Ron and fire-called the hospital, but he never left the room. He was secretly proud of himself for not losing consciousness at the sight of his wife giving birth. 

“It’s a boy,” Harry announced, and Ron hurried to the room to see Ginny. Hermione hugged Harry to congratulate him, and he tried not to think how she sighed against his neck, squeezing him a little too much. 

*

The Ford Anglia Harry had inherited from Arthur was one true piece of art. It carried history, old and damaged and renovated, and made Harry remember the deep connection he had with the Weasley family. It was more than a friendship, more than an obligation or a habit. The situations he had lived along with the members of that family were strong enough to keep him bonded to them for eternity. 

The light blue of the car reflected the street; the rain seemed to ease down at last, but the sound of the wipers going back and forth was too intense for Harry to calm down. He tried to block his anger out, but he couldn’t, so he grasped at the hair of the bobbing head on his lap and came hard, his gasp something between a cough and a sob. 

They had to wait for another twenty minutes, because the rain was still going on. The guy was a muggle. Neither of them spoke a word nor tried to. 

When the man was gone, Harry pressed the Invisibility Booster. The car took off, and he returned home. 

*

“Do you ever wonder if he was gay? Or just… you know, pissed,” Hermione asked, and Harry slammed his glass on the table, looking around to make sure that nobody had heard them. Albus was crying upstairs, Ginny was struggling to soothe him down, and James was nowhere to be seen. 

“I don’t. And I don’t want you to ever mention that again. Ever. Understood?”

She did, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about his temper. Strict auror training and self-control exercises were what kept him from blushing childishly and leaving the room. 

*

When Ginny asked him where he’d like to spend the holidays, Harry didn’t think about it much. 

“France,” he said. 

*

It wasn’t satisfaction that he felt, when he met Snape again, the piece of paper with the scribbled address in hand. It was familiarity. Snape was surprised too, but he let him in. Harry wasn’t sure of what to say, and he didn’t want to pretend, so he let the silence drag on as he drank tea and stared at his lap.

Snape was the first to speak, addressing the subject with a specificness that drummed in Harry’s chest like a dying butterfly. 

“You’ve yet to grow out of it,” Snape said; the distance his tone tried to create was nowhere to be seen. 

And Harry snorted, because when in great misery, what else could one do? “I don’t think I’m ever going to. I can’t. I… can’t.”

And Harry soon explained about his family holidays and his children waiting to see Disneyland, feeling that there was nothing he could actually talk to Snape about and blaming himself for coming here at all. It was madness. Stupidity. He didn’t forget to mention how beautiful his sons were, how clever and cheeky, how talented - and how Al’s accidental magic had once made Ginny’s hair catch fire. 

He didn’t realise how ridiculous his small talk was until Snape kissed him; words and thoughts about his family disappeared at once, and suddenly, he was himself again. 

*

The sex was better than he remembered it, or maybe he was better at it, or maybe Snape was better at it. Either way, Snape gave him what he wanted, and he could now tell himself again that he didn’t need it anymore. 

It was always after someone had fucked his brains out that he convinced himself that he didn’t need it anymore. 

It was always too soon after it that he’d know he was fooling himself. 

*

“I’m not fucking married men,” Snape told him when he knocked on his door again, the day after. Harry wanted to protest, because he was a married man the night before too, and because he suddenly was a twisted bastard even in Snape’s opinion too. 

The humiliation was too much. 

The anger was greater, and he didn’t forget to spit on Snape’s doorstep before he left. 

*

“Do I make you happy?” Ginny asked, her long nails scratching lazily on Harry’s back. Harry groaned and rolled around to look at her. He didn’t know how to respond, so he nodded his head and he hoped she’d understand. 

“I love you, Gin.”

Her smile was sad, and it only became bright again when she heard her newborn daughter crying from her bedroom. It was the perfect excuse for Ginny to leave their bed, so she did. 

Harry couldn’t tell why this annoyed him so much. 

*

“I cant believe that you lied to me... You... monster, how could you do this to me! Go away! Go!”

This had been going on for an hour, and Harry didn’t seem to know how to calm her down this time. The Prophet’s photo wasn’t any worse than the last one, and it only showed his back – entering a motel with a muggle guy he had met a week ago. 

Molly glared at him too, her arms folded on her chest, her lips pressed shut, her eyes promising death. Harry screamed and yelled, begging for Ginny to listen to him, although every time she stopped shouting, he didn’t know what to say, so she started again. 

The divorce papers took ages to be confirmed, and Harry had already moved out again. 

When they did, he felt an emptiness in his chest that he had never felt before. 

*

It became an obsession, to meet Snape again; it seemed that if Snape didn’t have the right answers, no one did. It seemed that only Snape could help him find himself after the disaster he had caused to his life. 

He owled him twice, but with no response; he invited himself to France and offered to spend a few days there. There was no reply and no hope. Harry had been stupid; he destroyed his family for a sick passion, for an abnormality - for cock. It wasn’t right. It was low. It was pathetic. 

That night, he wished for his family’s happiness back. But of course, nothing happened.

*

"Snape!" Harry said, approaching the man happily. Diagon Alley's crowd never ceased to amaze him; he could barely walk without stepping on someone's foot. Snape stopped short at his call, but didn't make any effort to come closer. 

"You're back! I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Potter. How are you?" Snape asked. They hadn’t seen each other for years; whatever intimacy might have existed, had ended long ago. Still, Harry stared at the black eyes and searched for it. 

He shrugged and snorted, trying to seem calm. "As good as I'll ever be, I suppose. How are you? You came back for good?"

"As if. I'm here for business, of all things. Gringotts had trouble transferring my account elsewhere so I'm here to check on what happened."

Harry nodded, trying to look interested instead of awkward. "You want them to change your account to muggle money."

Snape stared. "Yes."

He thought of asking why. Then he realised he didn’t care. Small talk was never good for them. Sex was. But Harry was tired of sex too. It occurred to him that a part of himself wanted Snape, and only that. Not sex, not men, not women, not gay clubs and pointless fooling around. It lasted a second, but he did imagine it. He could have a relationship with this man. They could try it. They could give it a go, if they both wanted it. 

"So. Where are you staying at?"

"A muggle hotel. Cheap but comfortable. I'm not planning to stay long anyway. What about you? I've heard your marriage isn't at its best."

Harry laughed at that. It was unnerving to talk casually with the man. ''Oh. Um, we split up long ago. She took everything, the money and the kids. If I wasn't the Chosen One I'd be homeless."

"But you are the Chosen One, so even after the disaster you've made there, you still have the grandest apartment around."

Harry nodded once, smiling. "Yes sir," he said cheekily. "Hey, look at the bright side of it. I'm not a married man anymore,” he said, raising up a hand to show his bare fingers.

Snape said nothing for a moment, and Harry was about to explain that he was only joking when someone placed a hand on Snape's shoulder. "You ready? Oh. Harry Potter. Nice to meet you, Steve Grierson."

Harry took the hand because he couldn't do so. "Nice to meet you, too. You're friends?" 

He shouldn't have asked. He couldn't care less about what he should do, though.

"We're-"

"Colleagues," Snape cut in, much to the other man's awkwardness. 

Harry left defeated, annoyed, and upset after another ten minutes of small talk.

Calling Ginny on his way back to his flat, to ask when he could see the kids again, the only response he got was the answering machine. 

*

"It's not about the grades," Harry hissed.

"Oh fuck you, dad. I know what it's about. I don't fucking care."

"Hold your tongue, James! You attacked a student right in front of-"

"In front of everyone! Is that what annoys you? Should I have done it secretly? He fucking deserved it and I'd do it again if I had the chance!"

Harry was missing things. Things like Lily's first crush with a boy she met in the playground. Things like Albus still wetting his bed. Things like James being nothing less than a true James Potter.

It wasn't his fault, he decided, although he knew he'd change his mind in the morning. It was Ginny's fault. She kept him away from his children for so long that he'd lost touch with their lives. 

Right then, on top of it all, he felt like the worst father in the world.

*

“Not all love stories have a nice ending. Not all stories are about love,” Hermione told him once. It was curious that he thought of it now, so many years after it - now that Hermione was so busy raising children that she never read books anymore. 

“Not all love stories have a nice ending,” he quoted confidently, not knowing how to explain his faults to his children’s grandmother. 

Molly nodded, pulling her blanket over her feet as she stared at the fire. She hadn’t visited him for years, and even when she was with the kids, she barely talked to him. He had accepted it without complaining, and he never doubted that her decision to avoid him was absolutely right. 

“Your story has a happy ending, I daresay,” she said, smiling honestly. 

Harry furrowed his brow. “With Ginny?”

“Of course with Ginny! Three beautiful, healthy kids. A happy ending for a great story, if you ask me. Great story. Great.”

He stared. She smiled. “But not a love story, is it?”

Harry gritted his teeth. “I love Ginny. I’ve always loved her. Look, I don’t see why we should -”

“We shouldn’t. Harry, I’m only here because Lily asked me to make her my lemon pie. If I wasn’t here just for that, I’d tell you that he’s back, or I’d tell you that he’s going to be at the Ministry tomorrow.”

“What? Who?”

Molly didn’t answer. Harry felt his blood running cold. 

“Some love stories do have a happy ending, don’t they?” she said indifferently. 

“Grandma!” Lily ran down the stairs and landed in her arms, hugging her tightly. Harry watched. 

*

Harry saw him again in the Ministry the day after, and they shared a polite smile. This time Snape was alone, eager to transfer all his papers abroad and get done with England. Harry offered to help him, but Snape declined. The scandal had never been forgotten, after all, and even after a decade and a half people were still dying to see Harry go wrong again. The faintest smile towards Severus Snape in front of a journalist could be enough to start it all over again. 

So he was careful. And when he invited Snape home, just for dinner, just for the sake of their past, just for a night, Snape accepted the invitation at once. 

They shared another restless night too, then, and they spoke of random things they didn’t give a damn about. Harry enjoyed feeling young again. He enjoyed being close to someone like Snape (ugly, ugly like the past, ugly like fascism, ugly like Voldemort, and old, so very old, old like a castle, old like magic, old like war) so very fading away (beautiful like virtue, beautiful like sacrifice and loyalty and surrender) to a past he was maddeningly trying to escape from once. 

Harry offered to let him stay until his papers were done, and a part of him wished Snape was already asleep and hadn’t heard his suggestion. But Snape was awake, and he accepted, and then a part of him wished that Snape would change his mind and would stay in England permanently. 

He didn’t hope, nor make plans, though. He decided to wait and see. He decided to not give a damn about the journalists and see if this was a love story, or another interesting event in a life that was not so bad after all, and had never been. 

Molly was wrong, once - then Molly was right. 

Like every human being. 

Being the little spoon, for the first time in his life, he decided that he liked it.

  
  


-The End-


End file.
